Bridges
by vapourtrailreads
Summary: While Katniss struggles with her past, Willow finds out more about what really happened all those years ago... Contains OCs - Rated T for mature themes (not in that way)
1. Sitting 'Round Wondering

A/N:

 ***dusts off old-fashioned microphone* Okay, I realise that I've left this untouched for way too long. I had it planned out, I swear, but life got in the way.**

 **I'm editing the first three chapters, so there may be slight differences in the content.**

Spoilers for the entire Hunger Games trilogy. Titles taken from Payphone by Maroon 5 featuring Wiz Khalifa. Finally, a title that isn't Panic! At The Disco…

 **Chapter 1 - Sitting 'Round Wondering**

 _ **{Willow}**_

There are a lot of things I don't understand.

I don't understand why my mum wakes up in the middle of the night, screaming, and why the only person who can calm her down is my dad. I don't understand why my dad looks at perfectly ordinary things, like flowers, and then winces and turns away like it hurts to look at them. I don't understand why sometimes, my mum bursts into tears for no apparent reason, and I don't understand why my dad never lets us open the third drawer on the wooden chest by the dining table. I wish someone would explain to me what the hell went on. I say went on, because everywhere my parents go people point and whisper about Katniss Everdeen and Peeta Mellark. And since my parents haven't done anything extraordinary as far as I know, it's gotta be from way before I was born.

I'm turning seven this year, and this year, I'm gonna get my questions answered. In the first grade of school, students all over Panem learn about the events that happened nearly a hundred years ago. The Dark Days. The Rebellion. The Hunger Games.

But before that, I have two weeks of summer holiday to go. And today –

"Hey!"

I writhe in the yellow sunlight coming from the window in my room, as the cold morning air tickles my skin, no longer rebuffed by the thick fabric of my blanket.

My mum is standing beside my bed, the tiniest wisp of a smile dancing across her lips. She has long black hair that falls like curtains over her shoulders, and sharp grey eyes that could cut into your mind and see whatever secrets you're hiding. In one hand, she holds my blanket, her nimble fingers playing with the seam on the edge.

"Wake up, little duck," she said, breaking into a slightly bigger smile. "It's going to be a big day."

"Where are we going?" I ask, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed. I shuffle my feet into my fluffy slippers and stretch out the stiffness in my neck, yawning as I go.

My mum drops the blanket on my bed. For a split second I think of dashing back into my covers and staying there until lunch. "Aunt Annie's place."

Instantly, my ears prick up. I love it when we go to visit Aunt Annie. She isn't my aunt by blood, but according to what I hear when my mum and dad talk at night, she knew them during the rebellion. I imagine the tang of salty sea breeze and immediately get even more excited.

"Get dressed and come down for breakfast," my mum says. "We're leaving in half an hour. You don't wanna miss the train, do you?" she says, ruffling my hair. It's long, curly and dark, just like hers.

I giggle and shake my head. Mum laughs a little and goes to the door opposite mine.

I close the door and rummage for my most comfortable clothes. The first time I went, I'd been wearing my best clothes, and I'd spent the afternoon watching sulkily from the porch as my brother and Dylan swam in the water with all the colourful fishes. I throw on a short-sleeved cotton shirt and a pair of navy blue shorts and run downstairs amid my mum coaxing, "Wake up, Rye, don't you want breakfast?"

My dad sits at the dining table, dipping cookies into hot chocolate. He sees me coming and pulls out a stool for me to sit.

"Good morning," I say, as my dad pushes the plate of cookies towards me. They're covered in orange icing and they look like flowers.

"Did you bake them?" I ask, sipping my hot chocolate.

He makes a face of exaggerated hurt. "I thought you liked my cookies!"

"I _do_ like your cookies, Daddy," I say, taking a bite. The cookie crumbles in my mouth and I make a small sound of satisfaction. "Yum."

His blue eyes dance with light as he smiles. My mum says I have the most beautiful eyes – "like your dad," she told me once. Dad finishes his hot chocolate in one gulp, and his stool drags loudly across the floor as he walks over to the sink.

I watch his legs as he scrubs the mug in the sink, humming a tune I don't recognise. One real and one metal, glinting in the morning sun. Another one of the mysteries in my life.

Once, I asked Dad how he lost his leg and he told me not to worry about it. That meant he wasn't going to answer my question, so I asked Mum.

"Someone hurt it very badly," she'd said, as we folded the towels she'd just taken off the clothesline and stacked them on my bed.

"Who?" I'd asked.

She'd continued folding the towels quietly. So I'd kept quiet too.

My little brother, Rye, stumbles to the table. His golden blond hair sticks up on one side, and he climbs up onto the stool with some difficulty. It's a little too high for him, and his legs dangle off the floor as he swings them absently. I give him the plate of cookies and he starts eating without a second word.

"Is Dylan coming?" asks Rye eagerly. Dylan is Aunt Annie's son, and something of a big brother to us. He's turning fourteen this year, but he's been quite busy apprenticing with the fishermen, which is the main occupation in District 4 where they live.

"Yep, he's coming," replies my dad, coming over to sit at the table. "Wouldn't pass up the chance to see you guys. You're just too cute."

Everyone bursts out laughing, even Mum, who's just arrived in the kitchen. She puts down her laundry basket to put an arm around Dad's shoulders.

"Well, you better hurry," she says. "Train is coming!"

At that, Rye starts shoving cookies into his mouth, two at a time, and I can't help but double over, I'm laughing so much it hurts. But for some strange reason, I discover that I don't mind.


	2. Where Have The Times Gone?

**Chapter 2 - Where Have The Times Gone?**

 _ **{Willow}**_

"Auntie Annie!"

Rye runs towards the little seaside cottage, and for once Mum doesn't stop him. A red-haired woman bends down and musses up Rye's hair, smiling.

"Hi, Aunt Annie," I say, coming up to them.

"Oh, Willow, you've grown so much!" she says kindly, her bright sea-green eyes crinkled in a radiant smile. Aunt Annie opens the door and hurries inside. "Come on in! Dylan will be back soon, he's very excited to see you all again, he's been going on about it all morning…" She trails off and busies herself with the teapot.

Mum and Dad head into the kitchen to catch up. I go out onto the porch and sit myself down on the wooden floorboards, listening to the waves lap against the shore.

"It's pretty," Rye says, sitting on the steps leading down to the beach. All around, the wind blows freely, rippling my clothes and making my hair flap like a banner in the gales.

"Yeah," I say. "It's pretty."

"Just like you!" someone exclaims behind us.

"Dylan!" Rye jumps up off the steps and crushes his arms around Dylan's middle.

Dylan laughs and lifts my brother up into his arms. "Whoa!" he yelps, stumbling a little, "What'd you eat for breakfast, chum? You're as heavy as a giant tuna!"

Rye grins and wriggles to be set down. Dylan puts him on the porch and he runs into the house, shouting for Mum to come see who's here.

"And look who's gotten so tall! You're almost the same height as that little tree over there now, Willow!" Dylan teases, poking at my cheek. I slap his hand away, laughing.

"Come on," he says. "It's fun time."

 _XXXXXXXX_

 ** _{Katniss}_**

I sit at the little table in the kitchen, taking small gulps of tea. Rye and Dylan are beside themselves, clutching at their stomachs and guffawing at Willow as she does a funny dance.

After a while, Peeta gets out of his chair and heads over to them. I watch as he makes a joke, and all three kids fall about laughing at once. Peeta may not admit it, but he's much better with children than I am. No – he's better with _people_ than I am.

Across from me, Annie smiles fondly at her son. If you didn't know what she's been through, you'd think that she was someone who's never known danger of pain. She gives a small sigh as Dylan chats enthusiastically with everyone about how his apprenticeship with the fishermen is going. At age fourteen, he's tall and handsome, with beautiful bronze hair and sharp green eyes – just like Finnick when he won his Games, I realise, with a stab in my gut.

"Only fourteen," Annie says. "Did you know he won the school fishing competition last week? Got his clothes soaking wet, but that's okay. They let him bring home the catch – two huge tuna. It was a nice dinner."

"Finnick would be proud," I say, before I can stop myself. And I instantly regret it.

Annie's face closes off like a blooming flower in reverse. Her bottom lip trembles, and her hands shake like grass in the wind.

"Yes," she says finally. "Yes, he would."

She gives me a faint smile, and the dreadful feeling eases a little.

"Do you want sugar?" Annie asks suddenly. She reaches over and opens the dainty china pot in the centre of the table. I peer inside, and the sugar cubes seem to stab holes in my eyeballs.

 _Want a sugar cube?_

"Sure," I manage. Annie grins and leaves the kitchen, probably to join in the fun.

I scoop out a sugar cube and drop it into my tea, and for the longest time I sit there watching as the white crystals bob up and down in the cup, like the pendulum in a grandfather clock.


	3. You Say It's Too Late To Make It

**Chapter 3 - You Say It's Too Late To Make It**

 _ **{Willow}**_

I sit idly on the couch in the living room at home. It's only been three days since our visit to Aunt Annie's, but it already feels like forever. I miss the little house with its beautiful seaside views, and I miss Dylan and his warm smile. Over in District 4, the town was bustling with life, the children playing games in the street, laughing as they chased each other through the crowd. But here, in 12, it's as quiet as death.

Sighing, I fumble for the remote and turn on the TV. The screen flickers to life, and the show currently screening isn't something I know. It seems like some sort of nature programme. I shift on the couch, trying to get into a more comfortable position.

The scene flicks to a picture of the woods outside District 12, then shows a flock of birds leaving the trees.

"Half mockingbird and half Capitol experiment, the mockingjay is a symbol of hope from yesteryear."

 _Mockingjay? Yesteryear?_

I lean forward, straining my ears to listen. The camera zooms in on a bird's head. The mockingjay cocks its head as it hears a fellow bird calling. It opens its beak and cries out in return, the sound flawlessly identical to the call heard earlier.

"In the Dark Days, the Capitol released an avian muttation known as the jabberjay." The mockingjay on screen calls again, and this time, replying calls can be heard echoing from far off. The mockingjay spreads its wings and takes flight, landing in a tree some distance away.

"Jabberjays were exclusively male and able to perfectly replicate any word and sound. At first, these creatures were used to intercept rebel communications," the narrator's voice drones, as schematics for jabberjay centres flash by on-screen. "When the jabberjay initiative failed, the birds mated with female mockingbirds, creating an entirely different species."

I reach for the volume control. Part of me wants to stop watching, but the other part just can't. I'm transfixed by the screen, for better or worse.

"Later on, the mockingjay was used as a token in the Hunger Games, in the form of a gold brooch worn by eventual Victor Katniss Everdeen in the 74th edition of the event."

And now I'm sliding off the couch, inching towards the screen as an old clip starts playing. A young woman dressed in pants and a jacket sits perched in a tree, sawing unevenly at a branch above her head, and I choke back a cry.

It's my mum.

Strands of sweaty black hair dangle in front of her face. Her braid swings with the rhythmic back and forth motion of her knife. I can see my mum breathing shakily as she drags the blade through the wood over and over.

The wasp's nest at the end of the branch dips dangerously, and a humongous wasp exits the nest, humming like a giant stereo. My mum cries out in pain as it stings her viciously on the neck, leaving an awful swelling the size of Dad's cookies. On her jacket, a metal pin with the silhouette of a bird welded to it catches the light, and I get a glimpse of it just as the scene changes, to show my mum twirling in a white dress. It burns and blackens as she spins on the spot, drawing screams of horror from the crowd.

My mum spreads her arms wide, revealing the pair of black bird-like wings that have replaced her sleeves.

The host on stage stumbles backwards, stuttering with surprise. "It's – like a bird! It's – like–"

"– a Mockingjay," my mum says. She stares at the floor, looking abashed.

"Later, Everdeen came to be known as the Mockingjay during the rebe–"

The screen goes black.

I spin around and see my dad standing behind the couch. One hand grips the backrest like a lifebuoy. The other holds the remote control as if it's the most valuable thing in the house.

He stares at me, those sparkly sky-blue eyes now tinged with something I can't read. Finally –

"Don't tell your mum," he says, and leaves.

 _XXXXXXXX_

 ** _{Katniss}_**

I preoccupy myself with hanging out the clothes. With some effort, I swing the last of the towels over the washing line and pull on the cloth to adjust it.

A familiar bird call reaches my ears, and I put my basket down on the wooden bench next to the back door. The mockingjays circle around the clouds, screeching as they go. I sit down on the bench and watch them fly in circles above my head.

I reach into my pocket and feel the cold metal against my fingers. It's hard to explain, but keeping the pin with me has become something of a nervous habit. I take it out and weigh it in my hand.

I remember when Madge gave it to me on the day of the reaping. That day, I hadn't thought to bring a token, I had been so sure I wouldn't be reaped. She'd pulled it out of her clothes and pinned it on for me, and it was then that I realised that people judge others too easily. They thought of Madge as a stuck-up snob, when she really was just a normal girl who wanted someone to talk to. I'd made the same mistake of judging Finnick when I met him before the Quarter Quell. And during the rebellion, people expected me to be tough as nails, when all I wanted to do was run home and crumple into a heap on my bed.

Two mockingjays leave the group and land gracefully on my roof. They start chirping loudly, but today I don't feel like chasing them off.

I part my lips and whistle the four-note tune that Rue taught me all those years ago in the arena. After a beat, the birds take up the song, and as they fly off to rejoin the group, they take the music with them.

And as I get up to continue my work, a wave of bitterness washes over me. If a mockingjay can share a song, is it really that hard for us humans to share what we have? If the people of Panem had known how to give, would life still be like this? Would I still be sitting here, a mockingjay pin in my palm?

I finish off the laundry and head back inside.


	4. Still Stuck In That Time

**Chapter 4 - Still Stuck In That Time**

 _ **{Katniss}**_

 _It's dark. It's dark and it's cold, freezing cold, and all I want to do is lie down and die on top of that Cornucopia. But I can't._

" _Make it count," Peeta says, and I watch myself untie the strip of damp cloth I tore from my clothes – jacket or shirt, I can't remember – and pull out the arrow._

 _My hands won't stop shaking. I aim at Cato, who shifts weakly on the ground, and for a moment I see Rue trapped in that net, clutching at Marvel's spear lodged in her stomach. I let the arrow fly, and I look away as it hits its mark._

 _The scene changes, and now I'm kneeling at the manhole, watching the bald chalk-skinned muttations swarm into view, ripping and snarling as they thrash about in the water. Dimly, I feel my lips move, forming words that I don't want to say._

" _Nightlock. Nightlock. Nightlock."_

 _Finnick's scream echoes in the air, ringing in my ears as I scramble away from the blast._

" _Katniss!"_

 _Then I'm shoving my way through the crowd as the silvery parachutes descend from the sky like fallen angels cast down. The black smoke twists and rears back, making jagged grey shapes in the air, and everyone is screaming as the parachutes explode, but for some reason no one runs._

 _I open my mouth to scream too, but no sound comes out._

 _She gets out onto the sidewalk and starts tending to the children, and I realise too late that one of them is holding a parachute in her arms. I catch sight of her blond braid swinging from side to side, and the back of her blouse has come untucked._

 _And just like in all the other dreams, the rest of the parachutes go off._

I jerk up in my bed, and it's like someone popped a cork out of a champagne bottle. Because now, I _can_ scream. And I can't stop.

 _ **{Willow}**_

I wake up to Mum's screaming. Not bothering to put on my slippers, I open my door as quietly as possible and peer around the corner into the bedroom.

My mum is curled up in a ball, sobbing her eyes out, and Dad is kneeling on the floor beside the bed, trying to calm her down.

"Katniss," my dad whispers, "Katniss, it's okay, it was just a dream–"

" _I saw them,_ " Mum cries, half-burying her head in the covers. "I watched them die, Prim and Finnick and Cato and–" Whatever she says next dissolves into a flurry of tears.

"If you don't feel like it, I can go by myself," offers Dad, unsure.

Finally, Mum sits up and wipes her eyes on the edge of the blanket. "No. It's okay. I'm fine." She breathes out shakily. "We'll both go. Besides," she adds, forcing a grin, "you know how Haymitch is when I'm not there. He'll probably sneak off to the market to buy ten extra bottles of booze without me watching."

Dad sits back and clamps a hand over his heart dramatically. "Oh, the pain! You don't think I can watch our mentor for one day?"

"I don't think he can watch _himself,_ " Mum giggles. "Now move over, I'm going to wash."

That's my cue to run, so I sneak back to my room and crawl back into bed.

One week left till school starts. Three days since Dad caught me watching the programme about the mockingjay on the TV. I wonder what all that was about.

Someone opens my door. It's Dad. I think back to Mum, crying in her bed, and a pang of worry goes through me.

"We're going to the market today," says Dad casually, as if he hadn't just spent fifteen minutes trying to soothe his hysterical wife. "We'll be meeting Uncle Haymitch at his house first, so chop chop. The day awaits us, my dear."

 _XXXXXXXX_

At the market, it's a sea of noise. Mum has a tight grip on my hand; Dad is hoisting Rye on his shoulders, and Uncle Haymitch trails behind us, grumbling about how he's old enough to behave himself as we weave our way through the throng of people.

Mum stops at the vegetable store and begins picking them out, carrots and pumpkins and the like. Dad said that cooking isn't Mum's strong suit, but she always tries her best. When I asked him what her strong suit was then, he just smiled and turned back to the morning's batch of cookies.

She lets go of my hand for a moment, and it's immediately snatched up by Dad, who somehow has one hand free now - the other hand is still supporting Rye, who's sitting remarkably still for once.

"Stay close," Dad says, or rather yells, because that's the only way I can hear him over the buzzing of the marketgoers. "Don't get lost, okay?"

I nod. It's not like I want to get lost, anyway. I stay close to Mum, twining a hand into her jacket as she haggles with the vendor.

"You look like that girl."

I turn and see a boy about my age, with grey eyes and short black hair almost just like mine. We could easily be cousins, if you don't look too closely. "What girl?"

Part of me waits for the boy to say it's the girl on the television, the girl in the mockingjay dress, but the boy simply cocks his head and says:

"The girl in the picture my dad carries."

My eyes widen, and I open my mouth to ask a question, but before it forms in my head, my mum finishes her work at the stall and turns to me, beaming with triumph. "I've got the stuff," she says. "Let's go find your father-"

She stops short, eyes fixed on something, _someone,_ standing in the crowd. The someone stares back at her, shock written on his face.

"Dad," the boy says, running over to the man, who looks down suddenly, as if waking from a dream of the past.

"There you are, Aspen," he says, a smile playing on his mouth, so thin I can't tell if he's faking it. "Let's head back, okay?"

Aspen nods at his father, and they fade back into the crowd.

I look up at Mum with a fair amount of wariness. Her face is white, as if she's seen a ghost.

Maybe she has.

 _ **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

Please do leave a review, this newt needs encouragement and a reminder that people are counting on her to finish this O-O


	5. Now I'm Paralyzed

A/N:

Thanks for the reviews, they really made my day and (as cliche as it sounds) they were what motivated me to get this done and posted ASAP. This one's for you, but then again, they all are.

 **Chapter 5 - Now I'm Paralyzed**

 _ **{Katniss}**_

Fifteen years, and I still couldn't say a word.

I saw him standing there in the crowd, and for a moment it was him and me again, just like in the old days when we would meet up to buy supplies or sell our spoils, or when we were walking back to the Seam from school in the years before that reaping day.

In that moment, I was paralysed, unable to reach back into the past or move forward.

And now the moment is over, and I'm standing like a statue, unable to move, vaguely aware of Willow tugging at the sleeve of my jacket.

"Mom," she says, peering up at me with Peeta's eyes. "Who was that?"

I can't bring myself to tell her, to tell _anyone,_ yet. I risk a glance through the crowd, but he's nowhere to be found.

I tell myself I'm not looking for him, but it's a lie.

"No one." My voice sounds fake even to me. I look down at my daughter and force a smile. "Let's go find your dad and Rye."

Mercifully, Willow takes my hand without another word, and we head back.

 _XXXXXXXX_

The minute the groceries are on the kitchen counter, I manage to get upstairs and lock the bathroom door behind me without breaking down.

When the lock clicks, I let myself slide down to the floor and hug my knees to my body, but to my surprise, the tears don't come. Instead, I heave loud, gulping breaths of air, sweat trickling down my neck as I finally let myself remember.

Grey eyes, olive skin, black hair, everything just like me, yet still so completely unlike. With a battered hunting jacket draped over his shoulders, and a pair of white Peacekeeper boots laced up around his dark brown trousers.

He was out of place, yet he still fit in. He looked so different from the way he used to, more weathered, more tired.

But he still looked just the same.

 _Gale Hawthorne._

The name bounces around in my head, surrounded by a swarm of freshly unearthed memories - Gale and I in the forest, eating blackberries; Gale and I in the cabin by the lake; Gale's voice saying I would pick who I couldn't survive without; Gale's expression as he left the room I had confined myself to after the storming of the Capitol, the lines in his familiar face full of hurt and longing and, more than anything else, self-loathing.

That had been the last time I'd seen him.

Not anymore.

 _What is he doing here?_

The last word I heard about Gale was that he was in District 2, helping to shore up the Peacekeeper forces. I had assumed that meant he was staying there permanently. But now he's here again, another ghost from a time long gone.

 _What do I do if he looks me up?_

 _Why would you think that he'd look you up?_

A knock on the door snaps me out of my trance.

Peeta calls my name a second time, and with an effort, I pick myself up and unlock the door.

His eyes are concerned. "What happened?"

I look around. "Where are the kids?"

"Haymitch's."

"You'd trust him with them?"

"Do I have a choice?"

I don't answer. Peeta takes my wrist and leads me to the kitchen. There's a plate of cookies set out on the table. Of course there is.

Wordlessly, I take one as he goes to brew us some tea. The sweet sugar and crumbly dough make for a good distraction from the mess inside my head.

A strong aroma of chamomile signals that the tea is done. Peeta sets the cups on the table and takes a seat next to me.

"Do you want to tell me?" he asks.

I do.

So I hold my cup of cooling tea in my hand, my cookie in the other, and tell him.

After I finish, Peeta asks me if I want more tea, and I accept.

He picks up my cup and heads to the counter. "He's your childhood friend, Katniss. You knew each other for years. I mean, you even dated once."

I laugh. That's what I like about Peeta - he may have been an expert liar back in the day, and i don't doubt he still is (you should have seen his face when he told Haymitch the liquor store was closed for three months), but he's always honest when he can be.

"You know he never meant for it to happen."

By the tone of his voice, I know he means Prim. "It still happened, though."

"And he's paid for it," Peeta says, depositing my tea in front of me. "Katniss. You know he loved Prim. And you know he loved _you_."

I look down at my cookie. So far, it's largely uneaten save for that one bite I took out of it, and crumbs litter the wood of the table. I make a mental note to clean it up later.

"And I know that deep down, you can't bring yourself to hate him," Peeta continues. "So you can't let this - this standoff go on forever."

I decide that I should finish my cookie, so I take another bite.

"Are you listening?" Peeta asks, a drop of exasperation in his voice.

I sigh. "Yes."

Peeta finally sits down again, wincing as he lowers himself on his metal leg. "You know," he says, "that you need to talk about this. It doesn't have to me, but you need to go to someone."

I ponder his words. He's right. And like an arrow slamming into a target, one person immediately comes to mind.

"I know someone," I say, getting up from the table and sweeping the crumbs into a paper napkin. "I'm going for a day or two. Do you think you can handle the kids?"

Peeta doesn't question, just nods in understanding. I'm glad that he doesn't push it - even I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't even know why it was _her_ out of all the people I could have thought of.

But it feels like a step in the right direction.

So I'm taking it.

"I'm going to Seven," I tell him, and he raises one eyebrow and gives me a smile.

"Whatever feels right for you," Peeta says, and I smile gratefully. "My only question is, what for?"

I dust the crumbs off my clothes, and open the third drawer on the wooden chest next to the table.

"To find a friend," I reply.

 _ **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

*hopeful eyes* leave a review, please?


	6. I Know It's Hard To Remember

A/N:

Thanks so much for your lovely reviews, as always they motivated me to finish this as quickly as I could… Hope you like it.

 **Chapter 6 - I Know It's Hard To Remember**

 _ **{Willow}**_

Dad cracks the eggs on the edge of the bowl, one-two-three, and deposits them into a bowl, while I measure out the dry ingredients—we only have the salt and flour left to set out—to the best of my ability. Signs of my little slip-ups mark the table in the form of sprinkles of sugar and baking soda.

I don't ask where Mum has gone. I know she's gone to another district and won't be back for a few days. And I don't ask why either - I know that it has something to do with the young boy I met, and his father.

Unwittingly, my eyes drift to the chest of drawers sitting by the dining table. The third drawer sits closed, as usual, the key nowhere to be seen.

Dad looks up from the eggs and catches me looking at the chest, and my heart starts to speed up, unsure of how he'll react. But all he does is sigh and fling the eggshells into the little rubbish bag by the sink.

"Dad," I start to say.

He stops me with a hand in the air. "Willow," he says, "you can ask me your questions. I know you want to. But if I say I won't answer, I won't. Okay?"

Even I can tell that we've reached a new, more fragile level of understanding. And if I want to learn more, I need to be patient. "Okay."

Dad smiles faintly. "Fire away."

I reach over the table and grab the vanilla essence. "The TV said that… the narrator called Mum the Mockingjay. Why?"

Dad takes the vanilla out of my hand, and for a second I think he's not going to give an answer, but then he looks up at me.

"There was a big fight between the districts and the Capitol," he says. "Your mum was the leader of the districts. They called her the Mockingjay, after the symbol she used."

The Rebellion, I think. That's why people keep out of Mum's way, why they banter with her but never get pushy, why their eyes flick to her and away when she walks through the Seam. I always thought it was because of her looks. Now I know better. "So the bird on the gold pin Mum was wearing was a mockingjay?"

"Yup."

"They said it was her symbol during the Hunger Games," I say. "What _were_ the Hunger Games?"

Dad measures out vanilla essence with a teaspoon and pours it into the egg bowl. "The reason for the fight."

The look on my mother's face as she hacked at the tree branch swims in my mind. It was a look of panic and determination, the look of someone desperate to survive. The Games must have been a terrible thing, to force a sixteen-year-old girl to fight so hard just to keep the breath in her body.

It's no wonder they rebelled, really.

"The man that Mum and I ran into at the market..." I say. "He looked a lot like her."

Dad's hand jerks, and a copious amount of vanilla essence spills onto the counter.

"Who was he?" I ask carefully.

Quietly, Dad reaches for a rag and mops up the spill. "He was a friend of your mother's."

"If he was her friend," I think out loud, "why was she so scared when she saw him?"

Dad flings the rag in the sink with a wet _slap,_ and I almost jump out of my skin _._

"I'm sorry, ducky, but... that's not my story to tell." He flips the tap on and rinses his hands. "You'll have to ask your mum when she gets back."

"But—"

"Willow," says my dad, turning off the tap. "You promised, remember?"

Reluctantly, I nod. Dad gives me an apologetic look and reaches for the balloon whisk, and I pick up the bowl of vanilla and egg and stand on the other side of the big bowl holding butter and sugar.

I pour the mixture into the bowl, and Dad folds the ingredients together.

"I know it's frustrating, not knowing anything," he says.

"Yeah," I agree, trying not to pout.

"But, as annoying as it sounds..." he continues, "we'll tell you when you're older. Okay?"

"Okay." And I believe it. It's the best I can hope for, anyway.

"That's a relief," says Dad, grinning. "Now watch what you're doing with that egg, wouldn't want us making more messes than absolutely necessary, right?"

"Yeah."

 _ **{Katniss}**_

The echo of wood splintering under a blade is ten times louder in the secluded forest. I adjust my hunting jacket again and tread softly through the undergrowth, careful not to step on any twigs.

The train ride from 12 was essentially two days' worth of staring out the window at the scenery rushing by. And, of course, it brought back memories.

Memories of lavish feasts tinged with sombreness, hours of sitting up at night with Peeta watching tapes of past Games, trying to prepare for the horrors by forcing ourselves to remember the past. Memories of a time I would rather not think about.

But it had been necessary. Just like this is.

The axe thunks in wood again, and I take another step.

"I know you're there!" comes the scream, indignant and familiar, and I almost laugh.

I step over the threshold of the clearing, hands in the air. The woman clad in a white linen top and denim overalls pivots and swings her axe hard, lodging it in a tree stump with a grunt.

"You're a pain in the ass, Everdeen," says the woman, the scowl in her voice evident. "You know that?"

The woman straightens up fully, and I'm reminded of thin smiles and Cornucopia gold parting under the blade of a throwing axe.

I smile.

"Good to see you too, Johanna."

Johanna Mason throws me a furious glare and pulls off her gloves, and I think that I made the right choice coming here.

 _ **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

... okay... leave a review if you can and thanks for reading!


	7. The People We Used To Be

A/N:

Johanna curses in this one, so heads up. I hope she's not out of character. :S

 **Chapter 7 - The People We Used To Be**

 _ **{Katniss}**_

If there's one thing that hasn't changed in Johanna Mason over the years, it's her sharp tongue.

"I swear to all the lumber gods, I'll kill Plutarch the next time I see him," she snarls, heading for the roughly carved wooden bench outside her cottage. "I swear that I'll take the biggest axe I can find and shove it up his—"

She growls in frustration and sits down hard, the wood creaking from her anger.

"So there are lumber gods now?" I ask, stifling my laugh.

"Why, _yes,_ dear, there _are_ lumber gods living upstairs, and they'll kick your ass if you're mean to the pretty trees," Johanna snaps, boiling over with sarcasm. "Goddamn, you're even more annoying than the last time I saw you."

She scowls harder and curls her fingers into the knees of her overalls. I come over and sit next to her.

Johanna reaches across me into a bag I hadn't noticed and pulls out two bottles of beer.

"I don't drink," I tell her.

Johanna shrugs, and pops off the cap with a flick of her thumb. "Suit yourself." She takes a swig and gasps. "Yum."

"Is it too late to change my mind about that beer?" I say.

Johanna grins smugly and tosses me the other bottle. I open my bottle and take a sip.

"How's the kid?" she asks out of the blue, flipping her head around so fast that a stray lock of brown hair whips out and smacks my face.

"Which one?"

"You know who I'm talking about, Everdeen," Johanna says, jerking her head in the opposite direction again, so her hair forms a curtain of brown between my view and her face. "Don't fuck around."

And I do. All the times I called her, not knowing where she was staying or what she was doing, she only ever asked about one kid. A kid with bronze hair and sea-green eyes.

"He won the school fishing competition a while back," I say. "Swimming, too, a couple of months ago. He took up an apprenticeship with the local fishermen."

Johanna nods and takes another gulp. "How'd you get Heavensbee's number, by the way?" she asks.

"He gave it to me before he left for Three," I say. "Told me not to be a stranger."

Johanna scoffs. "Typical airy-fairy Capitol bullshit, then."

We sit in silence, but not an awkward silence, to my relief. After a beat, Johanna sets her bottle on the bench and turns to me, leaning her arm on the backrest.

"So," she says, her face suddenly turning cheerful, so sunny that it unsettles me. "What's new in _your_ life, Everdeen? Don't tell me your mentor got Lover Boy a new baking tray for his birthday."

"I'll be sure to tell you if he does."

"Answer my question."

I sigh. Now that I'm here, I can't seem to get it out.

"You remember Gale?" I ask, fingering my bottle.

Her nose wrinkles. "Yeah. Hawthorne. Tall guy. Hot, I guess. But not my type. Why?"

I swallow hard. "He came back. To Twelve."

"So?" Johanna throws her head back and stretches languidly, like a cat. "What's the problem with that?"

"I haven't seen him in fifteen years. And the last time we saw each other was after Prim—" I wince and correct myself. "After the Capitol fell."

But Johanna still manages to catch my sister's name.

"Hold up," she says, raising a finger. "So the reason you don't know how to handle the fact that he's back, is that your sister died because of him?"

I nod, grateful that she's helped me put what I've been skirting around into words. Johanna never did beat around the bush, a habit which mostly resulted in what I felt was devastating social destruction. I used to find it chafing. But now, I find myself feeling glad that she doesn't clip her words.

"You remember the Quell?" she asks. "The screaming birds?"

"Yeah." My mind flashes back to the unseen jabberjays around our group, to Johanna as she had been then, her face hard while I reeled from the shock of hearing my sister's voice. _There's no one left I love._

"It was a lie," she says, and I can hear her reluctantly lowering the walls she's built up, just a little bit. "Honestly? I started freaking out just as bad as you did when the screams started. But then I looked around and I saw. He _was_ screaming. Just not for me."

She chews her lip and stares at her gloves, chucked carelessly on the ground next to her grounded axe.

"You've mellowed," I say, because I don't know how else to provide comfort to someone who doesn't want any of it.

Johanna's face instantly changes, and she slaps me on the back of my head. "Watch your mouth, Everdeen. I'm a Victor of District Seven, and I can kick your ass as easily as I can chop down a tree. So don't play."

I decide against telling her that I'm a Victor of District Twelve who can hit her in the eye with an arrow as easily as I can carry a good tune.

"I survived an arena full of bloodthirsty brats and starving, desperate waifs when I was a kid," Johanna muses. "Survived my entire family being murdered just for my refusal to give in to a perverted old man. Went through stupid dunk tank sessions with electric shocks thrown in for that extra punch of fun. Multiple times. And after all that, I couldn't do that one little thing." She scoffs again. "It's so stupid. I can kill people with an axe, but I can't tell a guy that I'm in love with him."

"Yeah," I say, starting to suspect where this conversation is heading.

"So unless you're going to let me keep on calling you stupid indirectly, pull yourself together and make up," she chides. "Like, I know you don't _love_ love him, as in, you _friend_ love him. And I also know," she continues, "that you can't bring yourself to be pissed at him, right?"

I let her words hang in the air.

"I guess you're right."

"Obviously," Johanna smirks. "Now go, before I kick your sorry ass back onto the train for you."

I stand and hold out my hand, and she squints down at it like I'm handing her a glittery pink unicorn.

"Whatever," I say. "See you, Johanna."

She cringes at me, hard enough that I know she doesn't mean it.

"Just get going already, Girl on Fire," she grits, shooing me with both hands, and with one last wave, I'm on my way again, back home.

 _ **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

thanks for reading and reviewing 3


	8. Trying To Call Home

A/N:

IM BACK HERMANOS

Hope you like this :)) also please don't ask me how Willow knows what a minefield is.

 **Chapter 8 - Trying To Call Home**

 _ **{Willow}**_

"Ready?" Dad asks, holding Rye's hand.

"Ready," I say, following him down the steps and onto the street.

Mum isn't back yet. I know that the inter-district train rides can take different times to arrive depending on the class of train and the route you take, and Dad said that Mum wanted to go the long way, so the journey between districts would usually be more than a day at least.

Dad leads us to the market—we've run out of vegetables again, and Dad insists that we need to have our greens every day. I hold on to Dad's sweater as he navigates the crowd.

"Oh, it's you again," says a voice. It's not familiar yet, but even before I wheel around, I know who I will see.

"What's your name?" I ask the boy.

"Aspen Hawthorne. You?"

"Willow Everdeen-Mellark."

"My dad is busy at the Peacekeepers' office. Can I follow you for a while?"

I pull on Dad's sweater, and he turns around. "Willow, what—"

He notices Aspen standing next to me, and his eyes widen.

"I'm Aspen," says Aspen. Dad smiles, unaware that I can see how shaky it is.

"Hey, Aspen," he says. "I'm Peeta."

"Can I follow you until my dad gets back from the Peacekeepers' office?"

I expect Dad to kneel down and politely refuse Aspen, but he just smiles and beckons with his hand. "Sure."

Aspen nods and trails behind us as we pick up vegetables, spices and the like, not once uttering a word. I try to pretend it doesn't bother me at all—doesn't he want to know more too?

Or does he already know?

We reach home, Dad rummaging in his pocket for his keys, as Rye stares openly at Aspen like he's wearing an octopus for a hat. The door unlocks, and we file in.

Aspen asks if he can use our house phone, and again, Dad consents.

"Hey, Dad."

I sit on the sofa, quietly carding through Rye's hair as he lays in my lap, doodling aimlessly in a colouring book. It's one of the things that Mum got from friends when I was born, and it has squiggles of colour in some of the pictures, but Rye doesn't seem to mind as he hums a tune, drawing the colour pencil over the pages with loud scratching noises.

"I'm at your friend's house. Kat—Kit—" A pause. "Yes. Her." I try not to listen in on the conversation—Mum says it's rude, and Dad agrees—but my ears are tuned in to the sound like a radio to a broadcast. "Do you want me to come find you when you finish your work or—oh, you're… you're coming?"

Aspen puts the phone down on the table. "Mr. Peeta?"

I see Dad crack a tiny smile as he sorts the spices in the cupboard. "Just Peeta," he says. "Yes?"

"My dad is almost done with the paperwork at the office. Is it okay if he comes over to pick me up?"

Dad's smile flickers, but the waver is gone like a stone dropped into deep water. "Sure."

"He also want to know if Katniss is home."

The smile flickers again.

"I'm sorry," says Dad, his eyes apologetic. "She's gone to another district to visit a friend. I'm not entirely sure when she'll be back, but your dad can leave a message for her if he likes."

"Oh. Okay." Aspen picks up the phone again.

Dad turns back to the spices, but not before I see his hands tremble as he puts the cardamom next to the ginger.

 _XXXXXXXX_

About fifteen minutes later, the doorbell rings.

"That'll be my dad," Aspen informs us, getting off the chair at the kitchen table—Mum's chair. Dad follows behind him, and I turn to watch, crouching behind the armrest of the sofa.

The lock clicks, the door opens, and the silence that follows is an awkward one.

Dad stares at the stranger on the doorstep, who returns his blue gaze with a grey one of his own. Now that I can get a better look at him, I realise that he is the spitting image of Aspen (or maybe it's the other way round), with wavy black hair and olive skin like mine. He could be Mum's brother.

For all I know he is.

He looks much more well-dressed than when Mum and I saw him at the market—his weathered jacket has been replaced with a mauve sweater, though the Peacekeeper boots remain on his feet, hugging the rough-looking khaki pants he has on.

"Gale," says my dad, eyes staring unblinkingly.

"Peeta," the man—Gale—replies, fidgeting. It doesn't suit him, fidgeting. I think he is more used to people fidgeting _at_ him, if that's how the sentence goes. He shuffles his feet and raises his hand.

Dad reaches forward and shakes Gale's hand with a look on his face, a look like he's going into a minefield.

"It's good to see you," he says. "Really." Unbelievably, he seems to mean it, however discomfited he looks.

Gale nods. "You too."

The silence hangs in the air for a while longer before Dad clears his throat. "Do you… do you want to come in?"

"Oh, um, okay, then," Gale says, sounding unsure, but he takes off his boots anyway, leaving them by the door as he and Dad walk into the living room, Aspen trailing behind.

I hurry to scramble off the sofa, but I'm too slow: Gale sees me as I make for the staircase.

I hear his muffled gasp from across the room.

"That's Willow," Dad says, coming over to me and patting my head. I burrow into his sweater and fix my eyes on the floorboards.

When Gale speaks again, he sounds strange, like he's on the other end of a phone call from the past. "Hey, Willow."

"Hi," I say, but I don't think he hears me.

Gale nods awkwardly. I retreat to the sofa, while Dad makes his way over to the kitchen and sets out two mugs. "Coffee?"

"Anything is fine. Thanks."

Dad tips the coffee into the mugs as Gale takes the seat that Aspen just vacated. I turn my head and see him kneeling on the sofa, peering over the back at our parents. Rye is sitting on the floor, quietly working on his colouring book.

"Don't do that," I say.

Aspen cocks his head. "Do what?"

"Don't kneel on the cushions. Mum said that it'll damage them."

"You're doing it too, though."

I am.

"Just this once," I say, slightly miffed that he's caught me, before turning back to the scene.

Gale is fingering his mug absently, like he's not even aware of what he's doing. Dad takes a sip of his coffee.

"So," he begins, and I jump at the sudden lapse in silence. "How's it going in Two?"

Gale looks slightly taken aback. "Good," he says. "Things are in order, now that we've had time to work things out in the new government."

"I wasn't talking about work," says Dad.

Gale's eyes shoot down to his still-full mug. Belatedly, he takes a sip.

"I'm fine," he replies. It's clear he has no desire to talk more about it.

Dad takes the hint and finishes his coffee. He glances at Gale's mug, before rising and going over to the sink. He sets the mug down and reaches for the tap.

But before he can turn it on, the door opens again for the second time in the afternoon.

Boy, I was wrong about Dad and Gale's meeting being awkward. This is so much worse.

"Hi, Mum," Rye pipes up.

Mum tears her eyes away from Gale to look at my brother. I say 'tear', because I can see how much it still hurts.

"Hey, baby," she says.

For a long moment, she stands in the doorway, hair up in her usual braid, her bag hanging forgotten from her hand, black boots disappearing beneath her brown coat. She stands there, rigid as a statue, with her eyes on Rye and everyone's eyes on her.

Finally, she jerks out of her trance and makes for the stairs.

"I think this is where we disappear," Aspen whispers, and I get it.

I scoop Rye's hand into my own and coax him into following me out into the garden. Aspen follows us silently, shooting one last look at his father, whose gaze is fixed on the stairs.

Voices sound from inside the house, and not long after, Dad joins us and picks Rye up. The message in his eyes is clear. No going back inside.

I know why. Something is happening. Something needs to happen.

I just hope it does.

 _ **XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX**_

ohohoho cliffhanger :) review, please?

(special credits go to the bathroom for being my place of forced inspiration)


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